


A Song Unheard

by notyourparadigm



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Horror, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Templar Carver Hawke, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourparadigm/pseuds/notyourparadigm
Summary: When Hawke takes neither Anders nor Carver to the Deep Roads expedition, Carver decides to take life into his own hands and joins the Templar Order, and Anders is captured during a Darktown raid shortly thereafter. Carver is struggling to make peace with the reality that Anders faces execution or Tranquility, but of course things could not even be that simple.
Relationships: Anders/Carver Hawke
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [track_04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/gifts).



> This work was created to fulfill a prompt for the Black Emporium 2020, and includes some themes and kinks specifically requested by the prompt giver. However, in hopes of making this story accessible to other readers who might find these subjects uncomfortable to read, **I have separated explicit and graphic scenes** involving these topics into individual chapters that can be skipped, if so desired. While the scenes are still written in hopes of contributing to the story's atmosphere and narrative, any important information or topics handled within these chapters will be referenced or paraphrased afterwards such that the reader can still follow along.
> 
> These chapters will be denoted with an asterisk (*) beside them.
> 
> If you have any specific questions, feel free to leave a comment or contact me on social media.

The Gallows looked much the same as it did the first time Carver saw Kirkwall: uninviting.

He would have gone so far as to say somehow even  _ less  _ inviting, and they had been all but thrown back into the sea when they first arrived. Perhaps it was the lack of Fereldan refugees. Carver was always more readily trusting of one of his own countrymen than the Marchers, even if there was apparently a difference between a Kirkwaller or an Ostwick…er. Now, the Gallows held no temporary ‘guests’ sharing in his misery, left to sleep outside of the keep on whatever they had managed to bring with them from home. Only permanent residents wandered the courtyard, either shuffling about in ankle-length robes, or clattering armour against itself with each step. There were probably three or four mages per templar, from his count, but he avoided looking too closely at the mages, fearing how many of them he would count as Tranquil. At some point, he would know them all, perhaps even by name. But for the time being, he had other priorities: Learning. Adapting. Succeeding.

It had already been a week since he first put on the new armour, and yet he was still questioning if it fit properly. Perhaps it was by design that it sat so uncomfortably at all times, no matter how he adjusted or fiddled with it. He would not have been surprised, considering the self-depreciating and sombre tone of everything in the Order— more self-flagellation to ‘remind’ them of their duty seemed only natural.

Ser Thrask was supposed to be meeting him in the courtyard. Since taking his vows, Carver had been assigned to serve under Ser Thrask’s command, assisting him with his patrols and duties. As an older recruit into the order, Carver had the pleasure of skipping the traditional route of Templar training, forgoing joining the twelve-year-olds in history lessons for early morning drills with Ser Thrask. He also had the extra nuisance of having to learn much on the go, putting him in active duty while still in the process of learning and mastering his newfound talents. 

Yet today, Carver saw no sign of the old man anywhere, nor any of his other typical  _ attachés _ . That made things difficult, as he did not know many of the other templars well yet, and in truth was struggling to remember the names and faces of everyone introduced to him on a daily basis. Especially when many of those faces were obscured by helmets. For all Carver knew, there could have been familiar faces behind the sheets of metal surrounding him, but none of them beckoned him closer upon eye contact. He was going to have to get better at reading body language, apparently. 

For the time being, all he could notice was one helmet that stood almost a foot below the others. Ser Agatha, hopefully, unless there was another five-foot tall Knight-Lieutenant he had not yet met. They had only been introduced in passing, but that was better than never having met at all, and he was getting tired of standing around like a lost Mabari pup.

As Carver approached her, he found confidence at the sight of black hair showing underneath the helm, but still felt the last pang of worry tug at his chest as he saluted. “Ser… Agatha, yes?”

“Aye, although Agatha is just fine, recruit. No need to be so formal.”

Carver nodded, but for the time being formality was all he had. Perhaps in a few weeks, he would be comfortable forgoing salutes and titles, but for now he could escape most uncomfortable situations with a bowed head, hand on his chest, and an acknowledging  _ ‘ser’ _ . “I was to meet with Ser Thrask here this afternoon for more training, but I haven’t seen him anywhere. Do you know where he might be?”

“There was a last-minute party called out to the city a few hours ago. Thrask might have been conscripted along. I myself got dragged down here to replace some of the men that went with Ser Karras. This was my off day, too.” Agatha grumbled as she shuffled on her feet, passing her weight back and forth. Carver wondered if her armour was bothering her, too, or if it was just lack of sleep irritating her. 

“Do you know why they were called out?”

“Not specifically, but this is hardly uncommon. Probably got wind of someone harbouring an apostate, or sightings of some abomination on the coast. The City Watch will often call for our support if they suspect magical threat in any of their operations, too. You’d be surprised at how many gangs and cartels end up with renegade apostates in their ranks.”

Carver smirked at that. “I’ve barely been in Kirkwall a year, and it feels like half the warehouses by the docks hold secret bloodmage meetings at night.”

“Ha! I’ll bet you have some stories to tell. You must have seen your fair share of action, for the Order to recruit you at your age.”

“I was with King Cailan’s army at the Battle of Ostagar, if you can even call that a battle. It felt more like surviving a slaughter,” Carver frowned at the memory. “They tore our entire host apart. Only a handful of us survived long enough to hear the call to retreat, and even less who managed to do so.”

Ser Agatha offered what appeared to be a sympathetic nod, but it was difficult to tell under the helmet. Carver hoped it was sympathetic.

“After that, the struggle was mainly outrunning the darkspawn until we reached Gwaren and made passage for Kirkwall.” Not the entire truth, but Carver did not feel like trying to convince Ser Agatha that a Dragon-witch had swooped down and offered them passage to Gwaren. “After that I fought with the Red Iron mercenaries for a year with my brother to earn enough money for us and our mother.”

“That’s a lot of action in such a short time.” She noted. “I doubt you’ll have trouble here, then. I’ve heard Meeran and his lot are a rough bunch to work with.”

“To be fair,  _ ‘rough and intimidating’  _ are sort of synonymous with  _ ‘mercenary leader’ _ . They warmed up to you pretty fast after you helped them cut through a few spider swarms, or bandits, or whatever it was we were paid to kill.”

“I imagine so.” Ser Agatha chuckled. “Seeing as you faced both, I have to ask— what’s worse in a fight, darkspawn or apostates?”

Carver knew the answer immediately. “Do you know what a Hurlock Emissary is?”

“Sounds like a type of darkspawn.”

“Yeah. A darkspawn that can use magic.”

“Maker help us. You’re joking.”

“Afraid not.”

She raised a gloved hand to her forehead in a gesture of worry, despite it only able to touch the metal of her helm. “As if I didn’t have enough talk of blood mages to keep me up at night.”

Carver was about to recount the encounter with the Emissary they had faced outside Lothering, but the startings of a small commotion from the docks snapped Ser Agatha back to her duty.

“Ser Karras and his party are returning!” A voice cried from the walls. “They appear to have a captive!”

“Knights, escort all mages back to their quarters. Clear the path!” Ser Agatha pointed to the groups of templars as she issued the commands, Carver opting to fall into stride behind her in lieu of standing around idly. “Open the gates!”

The templars ushered the mages towards the keep, although that did not keep them from craning their necks back to catch a glimpse of the action along the way. They were far past viewing distance when the portcullis heaved upwards. The templars kept in a tight formation as they passed through, and Carver did not need to see the prisoner to know that they were in the centre of it.

“Any casualties?” Ser Agatha asked, looking with concern at the returning group. “You number fewer than you left.”

“Three were killed,” replied one of the helmed templars, “The rest are still getting patched up.”

The troupe came to a halt, and Carver was able to hear the clattering of shackles among the din of footsteps and weapons rattling against armour.

“He put up a fight, that’s for sure. The other Darktown thugs protecting him should have just turned tail and run, for all they helped.” Ser Karras shook his head in disapproval, but Carver could see pride sparkle in his eyes. “But if the rumours of him are true… Meredith is going to be very happy with our prize, indeed.”

“ _ Knight-Commander  _ Meredith.” Ser Agatha corrected, to Carver’s surprise. Was Ser Karras not well liked among his peers? Or was there bad blood between the two Knight-Lieutenants?

“Forgive the informalities, Knight-Lieutenant. It was a long battle. At the end of the day, one man can only do so much by himself.” He turned back and bent down to pick the prisoner up by the front of his robes, pulling the blond head into view of the courtyard. “Isn’t that right, Anders?”

In any other company, Carver would have invoked every single body part of Andraste back into the flame. Of course it had to be Anders. The Maker apparently wanted to see him struggle and suffer at every opportunity possible.

“What, no more back talk?” Ser Karras laughed. “And all the way here, I thought he’d never shut up.”

Anders must have been dangerously close to unconscious, for his head rolled in Ser Karras’ grasp as he struggled to keep his eyes open— or, rather, eye, as his left was beginning to turn a ghastly shade of purple amidst the swelling and blood. He Ser Karras let him go, shackles clattering loudly as he fell to the ground. Anders’ voice emerged with a surprising amount of nerve, considering how he struggled to find his footing to stand again. “You… you  _ killed  _ them…”

“They defended you, apostate. Even after we ordered them to stand down. They had their chance.”

“You  _ killed _ them.” Anders repeated, louder this time. His words rattled within his throat with a barely-restrained anger, and Carver noted with horror that bursts of light were beginning to tear through his skin. “You won’t get away with this—”

Carver stepped forward, grabbing Ser Agatha by the arm. “Knight Lieutenant, stand back, he’s—” 

“—no need to fuss, boy.” Ser Karras glanced over his shoulder towards Carver. “Even this foul magic can be restrained.”

He raised his hand, palm-first, towards Anders. From it emerged a glow of the faintest blue, wrapping up and around his arm, pulsating and quivering as if the greaves themselves had been lit aflame. He inhaled slowly, purposefully, and so too the tendrils flared, empowered by his breath. With a wrench motion, he clenched his fist, and the magic burst apart in his grasp. Anders gave a short, breathless cry as he, too, burst with the templar’s expelling magic. The cracks of brilliant blue were purged from his skin, and he fell to the ground a crumpled, mundane mess.

“Maker’s breath,” Ser Agatha took a step backwards, eyes wide. “What  _ is  _ he?”

“Some sort of demonic possession, as far as I can tell.” Ser Karras flexed his hand, shaking away the lingering wisps of lyrium. “Although why he appears so human still is a mystery to me.”

“Are you mad?” Another of the courtyard templars called out in a low, fearful croak. “Bringing an abomination here?! Kill it at once!”

“No!” Carver cried out before he could stop himself, and suddenly every pair of eyes in the courtyard were on him.

Including Anders’.

“While he might be a bit dramatic,” Ser Karras eyed Carver suspiciously, “the boy is right. This one has information we need.”

“What information?” Ser Agatha demanded. “What could be worth putting the entire Gallows at risk?”

“Valuable information for the Knight-Commander. He can be leashed, just as any other mage. His demonic form is not unlike a swell of magic, and can be denied and suppressed. I can teach his guards how to properly contain him, if needed.” Ser Karras turned back to Anders, looking down at him almost fondly. “Besides, I doubt it will take more than a few days to get the information we need.” 

Karras waved his hand, signaling a dismissive motion to a pair of knights in the company. They grew briefly rigid as they saluted in return, before scrambling to each taking one of Anders’ shoulders to haul him away. His ankles left streaks on the stones of the courtyard as they dragged behind him, and he barely managed to lift his head to catch Carver’s gaze before it, too, fell limp and defeated.

“This must be our new recruit, then.” Ser Karras stepped forwards, blocking Carver’s view of Anders disappearing into the keep. “You’re not from Kirkwall, are you?”

Carver swallowed. “Ferelden, Ser. Came here during the Blight.”

“Just like our newest guest. I can’t help but feel like you two know each other.” Ser Karras looked over his shoulder, then back to Carver, smiling. 

Had it been anyone else— Ser Agatha, Ser Thrask, even the Knight-Commander herself— and Carver would have not hesitated to tell the truth. But Karras’ smile, the way it tugged at one side of his mouth, revealing his teeth like a snarling animal… Carver felt like he was being tricked. As if Ser Karras was tempting him to confess to a crime.

“No, Ser.”

“Really? Ser Karras shot a glance to Ser Agatha. “Because you seemed unusually aware of the threat he posed.”

“I… have heard tales, Ser. From my time living in lowtown. You hear a lot of rumours.”

“Rumours, of course.” Ser Karras nodded. “Most stories you hear do have a grain of truth tucked away somewhere, after all. Even the most obvious lies.”

_ Shit. _

Another flash of teeth, and it was all but certain that Karras was toying with him. Anders was captured, execution surely awaiting him, and with a single impulsive lie, Carver had just made himself a prime suspect of conspiring with him.

Apparently, the Maker  _ really  _ enjoyed watching Carver suffer. 


	2. Chapter 2

Carver had only just stepped out of his quarters the following morning when a young boy— well, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, young enough— greeted him in the hallway, giving him a hasty salute. 

“Ser Carver.”

It still felt odd— to have rank over someone, even just a Templar trainee. But Carver would be lying if it didn’t feel nice to be respected without question. “If you were waiting for me out here, you could have knocked.” 

“Of course, Ser,” the trainee nodded. “I… did not want to disturb you, is all.”

A kind consideration, since Carver was probably one of the last out of bed. It was still not quite sunrise, but most of the western tower would have already long since arisen and gone off to work. Something about the Chantry types and _‘living in the Maker’s sunrise’_ , apparently. “What is it, then?”

“Just a message, Ser. The Knight-Captain wishes to speak with you first thing. Said he’d be waiting on the southern battlements for you.”

 _Cullen?_ Why in the Maker’s name did Cullen want to speak with him? Had news of Carver’s episode in the courtyard spread through the ranks so quickly? If the Knight-Captain suspected him of some sort of liability… lasting not even a month in the Order would have to be a new record for ‘shortest time serving as a Templar’.

“Thank you,” Carver waved him away, unable to resist the urge to groan once the boy had saluted and disappeared around down the tower’s steps. _This week is going to be just a fine mess, isn’t it?_

* * *

Cullen had chosen the worst time to meet upon the walls, for the sun was hanging right above the horizon in that perfectly horrid position where it glanced off the surface of the water in a blinding mix of red and oranges. If the Gallows had been built to watch for attacks from sea, dawn was apparently the time to strike, for it was nigh on impossible to see anything on the horizon. Carver had to shield his eyes to finally pick out the silhouette against the parapets, pacing along a small length of the wall. Apparently Cullen had adjusted better to the harsh lighting, as his arms remained behind his back as he took note of Carver’s approach, meeting him halfway.

“Knight-Captain,” Carver saluted. Cullen responded in kind.

“It’s Ser Carver now, yes? I don’t believe we’ve spoken since you swore your vows. Congratulations.” 

“I’m surprised you remember me at all,” Carver admitted. “Most only remember my brother. Or one of his strange tag-alongs. They hardly recognize some guy with a sword.”

“Yes, well.” Cullen cleared his throat. “That’s actually the reason I wanted to speak with you.”

Carver stiffened. _Of course it is_.

“It’s come to my attention that the apostate brought in yesterday was once a companion of yours.”

“Moreso one of my brother’s companions. I think he’s trying to collect the strangest people in Kirkwall.” Carver gave a wry smile, but Cullen’s expression remained still. “I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. We shared some… _different_ opinions.”

“So you lied to Ser Karras when asked if you knew him.”

Carver was going to die a bitter man if that one moment of suspicion was going to be his downfall. “Yes. I did not want it to… complicate things. I didn’t want to get involved, let people think I was doing something different because I knew him.”

“Normally, you’d be right. It’s better for a templar to have no emotional connection to any of the mages. There can be no hesitation in a critical moment. But…” Cullen looked away, face tensing. “I have a favour to ask of you. Unofficially.”

“In my experience, that usually means it’s something dangerous. Or illegal.” Carver thought back to his time with Meeran. “Both, actually.”

“It’s nothing like that, I promise. It’s just—” Cullen sighed. He took a moment to recollect his composure, turning back to Carver with a cold stare. “The Knight-Commander wants information from him. About the mage underground. There are still active rebel groups throughout Kirkwall, and we suspect there are escape routes somewhere in the city we don’t know about, or something we are missing, because we can never catch them once we get close. She wants to know how.”

The next step was obvious, yet Carver still felt pain twist in his stomach as he asked for confirmation. “I take it that means you’re going to make him Tranquil, then.”

“Were it that easy,” Cullen gave a derisive laugh that Carver did not appreciate. Nor the implication that Tranquility was somehow ever _’easy’_. “Tranquility can be unpredictable when it comes to memories. Some Tranquil have no memory loss, but others will struggle to recall basic things of their life before. It seems particularly common when it comes to things of emotional value— they’ll struggle to remember names of their family, or describe their work…”

It was impossible for Carver to not imagine it, try as he did to block it out. The rigid stature, the glazed expression staring back at him, blond hair almost framing the brand of Andraste’s flame on his forehead… 

“…then there’s the fact we don’t know if he _can_ even be made Tranquil. Or if he’d survive the process. Nobody has ever performed the Rite on an abomination or, or—“ Cullen paused, waving his hand vaguely in the air, “— _whatever_ he is. The First Enchanter thinks it’s too dangerous to try.”

“Too dangerous?” 

“He’s afraid we’ll let out whatever is possessing him,” Cullen explained, crossing his arms. “Right now, he’s at least stable— still a threat, but a manageable one. But whatever is inside of him… it wants into our world. It probably won’t be too eager to go back into the Fade if we kill its host.”

“So, what, I’m supposed to just… ask him nicely?”

“I want you to talk with him first, yes. Explain to him what’s at stake.”

Carver scoffed at that. “You clearly haven’t met him before. He’d sooner die than tell us anything.”

“It’s not the execution I’m trying to avoid,” Cullen turned away, the guilt weighing heavy in his words. It took Carver a minute before he understood. 

“You’re going to torture him.”

“I want to avoid that if I can. Some of the Knights…” Cullen leaned on one of the parapets, looking out towards the docks. “There’s a fine line between keeping an emotional distance from our charges, and seeing them as creatures for sport. I’m starting to worry the Knight-Commander’s determination has made some of the men take a little too much… _’joy’_ in their jobs.”

Carver did not doubt that, from the display he saw in the courtyard alone, one might have thought that Karras had brought back a prize stag to show the Knight-Commander. “Well, you know what they say. Enjoy your job and you’ll never work a day in your life, right?”

That earned Carver a disapproving glare.

“Sorry.”

“If we continue this trend of senseless violence and hostility, all we will do is breed a new generation of apostates. Mages view the Circle as a death sentence, and us their executioners. It shouldn’t be like that,” Cullen shook his head. “If we want to make the Circle work better, we need to make it less intimidating. Make it so parents don’t fear sending their children to us, have them trust that they’ll be treated well with us. That we can protect them from others and themselves.”

Kirkwall’s Circle was certainly in desperate need of a new image, but Carver would have personally started with the _‘inescapable prison’_ aesthetic the Gallows had. “I suppose avoiding mage torture does sound like a step in the right direction.”

“If he gives up any information freely, promise him that we’ll treat the mages we find with respect and dignity. And that we will try our best to spare his life.”

“ _‘Try our best’_?” Carver asked, indignant at Cullen’s constant euphemisms. “What in Andraste’s name does that mean?” 

“It means we’ll do what we can.” Cullen’s tone was turning sour. “We cannot exactly allow him to remain as… whatever he is. If he survives the Rite of Tranquility—”

“That’s his reward?” Carver sneered. He knew he was already overstepping his place, but he could not help himself. “I may be wrong, but I think he would quite _literally_ rather die. That’s not exactly an incentive for him to talk.”

“Well then,” Cullen stepped back to face Carver, standing at his full height, and leaving no doubt that it was the Knight-Captain of Kirkwalll who spoke. “We will be more than happy to oblige him.”

Carver winced, “Ser, I didn't mean to—”

“That will be all for now, Ser Carver. I will summon you this afternoon to hear of your results.” Cullen punctuated the dismissal with a turn about face, folding his hands behind his back once again. 

“Yes, Ser. I will do what I can.” Carver gave a brief salute, turning towards the keep with heavy footsteps. For a moment, he considered simply returning to his duties, forgoing speaking to Anders at all. What difference would it make? There was no way he would be returning to Cullen with any sort of good news, and speaking with Anders would be punishment in of itself.

He reconsidered rather quickly though, for Maker help him if he got caught in another lie with this entire situation. More likely than not, these damn Chantry types would be branding the Canticle of Transfigurations on his forehead by the time this mess was over. 

* * *

Much of the Gallows had been renovated since its time as a Tevinter fortress. The quarters of the senior templar officers were situated in the main keep, in what had once been the main gaoler’s quarters. The rest of the Templar Order made its home in the western tower, one of the Gallow’s two main prison blocks. Perhaps it was no surprise that Carver’s quarters were a little cosy for his liking, as it had quite literally once been one of many cells in the tower. Yet he could not complain, for he had the luxury of many furnishings the original occupants did not— desk and chair, armoire, bookshelf, and thankfully a wooden door and walls in lieu of iron bars. Of course, Anders was not in the templars’ quarters, so it would do Carver no good to dream of returning back to its comfort.

The mages’ quarters were, in typical Chantry symbolism, situated in the eastern tower, with the layout mirrored on each floor, and similarly upgraded furnishings throughout. Well, perhaps somewhat fewer furnishings, and of course the added security of templar patrols throughout the day, but fundamentally they had the same bedrooms and common areas as their overseers. But Anders was not in the mages’ quarters, either.

There were still sections of the fortress that had been untouched since the days of the old Imperium. Where wrought iron bars still denied prisoners privacy from their gaolers, and wrought iron shackles and fixtures clung to every surface. Andraste only knew how many different prisoners had been bound to the walls or strung from the ceiling during the height of Tevinter’s power, or how many more the templars had added to the tally since taking it for themselves. It was there, beneath the keep, in the dark of the Gallows’ dungeons, is where the Order had thrown Anders. 

Carver had never been to the dungeons before. Had the templar on guard not stopped him before he descended down the winding staircase, he would have made the mistake of going without a torch. Apparently, they so rarely had any prisoners to even mind, let alone more than one, that they never bothered to even light the wall scones. Changing the kindling took up more time than checking on the prisoners, so they simply made their patrols with torches in hand, and left the poor sods in the pitch darkness until they faced whatever fate the Order had granted them.

Light from the upper floors were quickly lost in the stairwell, every step down a deeper shade of grey, until they might as well have been carved from Kirkwall jet. The descent was long enough that he could not help but briefly consider how much dirt and stone was between him and the surface, and the weight of over his head. Yet he was still nowhere as far down as his brother— they were not called the _‘Deep Roads’_ for nothing, after all. Varric had once described the dwarven lifts that descended into the caverns, which apparently were tall enough to climb the Viscount’s Keep twice over. That was one thing Carver could be appreciative of; at least he was not likely to suffocate in a cave-in at the Gallows, if the dungeons had held for this long. Less likely to contract the taint from hoards of darkspawn, too. Really, he was better off away from the entire affair. There was no reason to still be upset about his brother leaving him behind. He _was_ still upset, of course, but he had to remind himself that there were some positives about it. He would die happy if he never had to see another blighted darkspawn again.

The bottom of the staircase opened into a narrow hallway, although he could only see a few feet in front of him. The darkness enveloped the walls and floor so eagerly, it was as if he was holding but a tiny reading candle to light the way, not the roaring flame in his grasp. His palms were running slick with sweat, but surely it was just from the fire’s heat. His pulse quickened with each cell he passed, but only out of exertion from climbing down the stairs, not because he was anticipating a pair of blue eyes to be glowing in the darkness.

_Maker help me. What am I going to say to him?_

Beyond the reach of his torch, a pale glow bounced off the walls, pulsating gently, a beacon in the darkness. If Anders saw the torchlight approaching, he made no visible sign to indicate as such; even as Carver stood in full view of the cell, the mage didn’t look at him. Instead, he had a singular focus on his shackled arms, staring down the pale light coming from his open palm. He had himself braced against the wall, head tilting and straining with effort as his magic washed over his face, absorbing into his skin. He could only sustain the action for a few seconds, though, illuminating his dirt- and blood-stained face, before he returned to a shadow on the wall. With each attempt, the glow drew dimmer, until at last he conceded some form of defeat. As he allowed his hands to fall into his lap, the clatter of iron meeting iron reverberated loudly down the hall. Apparently, the dungeon had the right dimensions to carry the sounds incredibly well. 

“So it was you,” Anders said at last, breath still ragged with effort. “Here I was starting to hope you were just the byproduct of a concussion. Perhaps a fever dream.”

“Do you often dream of me, then?” Carver hoped he could hide some of his uncertainty behind japes and sarcasm. It seemed to work well enough for his brother.

“I expect I will now. Hopefully the ones that end with a nice Carver-sized pile of ash.” Anders’ voice was also playful, but the torchlight caught enough of his expression to make it clear that he was not fully joking.

“Listen, I didn’t have anything to do with—”

“Really? It’s just _coincidence_ that the moment Hawke leaves, the Undercity is strategically raided by a full host of templars, and I find you now counting yourself among their ranks?” Anders paused, looking to Carver expectantly. “All coincidence?”

“I didn’t tell them anything. I swear it.”

“Then how in Andraste’s name did they know when and where to assault us?” Anders dropped the mocking tone, revealing the full venom in his voice. “Not a single one of our lookouts saw them coming. It was as if they knew how we worked. Where to strike. Who to look out for.”

Carver had to scoff at the accusation. “I didn’t even know your little operation _had_ lookouts, let alone who they were.”

“No? Then how is it that they accepted a nobody Fereldan refugee into their ranks so quickly?” Anders raised an accusatory eyebrow. “The Order is usually rather particular about its recruits. They prefer to indoctrinate them young, as good little Chantry boys.”

“I didn’t come down here for you to lob insults at me.” Carver tried to remain calm, but felt his jaw clenching as he spoke.

“Unless you plan to gag me, you’ll suffer far worse yet.”

“That can be arranged.”

“What did you promise them, then? You going to sell out your brother when he gets back? Take whatever riches he brings back and take the family legacy for yourself?”

“Will you _shut_ your bloody face?” Carver banged a gauntlet against the iron bars, surprising even himself at how loud of a noise it made, reverberating in the dark. “No, I’m not here to betray you, or my brother, or any other damn mage we know. And I didn’t sell any secret mage intel to get myself in.”

“You joined the bloody _templars_ ,” Anders explained slowly and with exaggerated emphasis, as if Carver didn’t understand the concept. “You know, the Order that hunts down and imprisons apostates? Apostates like me? Apostates like your brother? Either you wanted to betray us, or you’re more of a moron than I realized.”

“You’re lucky these bars are here.”

“Threatening a restrained prisoner? The templar life suits you.”

Carver inhaled sharply. Each comment irritated him. Anders’ _face_ irritated him. But even more irritating was how he struggled to form a sufficient reply to each quip, and could only stand and seethe with rage, staring down Anders’ judging scowl as he fought the urge to bang on the jail bars again. “I came here on Knight-Captain Cullen’s orders.”

“Why? Is this a test? Does he want to see if you’ll set me free?” Anders offered his manacles towards Carver, shaking them mockingly. “Or did he just want you to see what happens to naughty mages who don’t play by the Chantry’s rules?”

“Neither,” Carver admitted, although both options honestly sounded more enjoyable. “He hoped you would tell me about the mage underground.”

Anders began to laugh, but the sound quickly turned to a cough in his chest. Nonetheless, he gave half-smile when he found his voice again. “He seems to have gotten a _very_ wrong impression about the nature of our relationship.”

“Apparently.”

“So what was the plan?” Anders passed his palms over his body, pausing on his lower ribs with a wince. Again, they started to glow softly with the faintest of healing spells. “Were you to offer me my freedom in exchange for the information? Surely they don’t think I’m that daft.”

Carver looked to the ground. “They’re going to torture you.”

The glow stopped abruptly, Anders’ head snapping towards him. “ _What?_ ”

“If you don’t talk now, they—”

“They’re _threatening_ me?” A new glow filled the cell, but this time it was not just from Anders’ palms. The blue light crackled at the seams of his skin, as if threatening to tear him apart to escape. “And the cowards don’t even have the spine to do it themselves?”

“What-? No!” Carver looked back down the hallway in a panic, fearful of another templar seeing Anders like this, fearful of what they might do. “ _Please_ , calm down. It wasn’t meant like that. He wanted to give you a choice—”

“A _choice_!” The words were almost a laugh, but at least the laugh seemed to ground Anders somewhat. He was at least less blue in hue. “That isn’t a choice. That’s an ultimatum. Comply, or face harm. What he’s asking me is what I value more— the lives of my fellow mages, or my own well being.”

Carver couldn’t deny the truth in that. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“This is what you signed up for, little Hawke,” Anders gestured to the cell around him.“This is the justice you are now sworn to defend. You had better make your peace with it.”

“Don’t call me that,” Carver growled. 

“Forgive me, I suppose it’s Ser Templar now, isn’t it?” Anders’ words dripped with false courtesy. “Your mother must be so proud. Do you go home every night and recount tales of the mages you imprisoned?”

“I live here now too, in case you’d forgotten. And my mother appreciates the wages I send home. Perhaps my brother was content to live on odd jobs and bounties, but what we really need is a stable income,” Carver shook his head in disbelief. “If he gets himself killed by some darkspawn, that doesn’t exactly give us financial security.”

“And the templars were the only ones hiring?”

“As a matter of fact, finding work as a Fereldan refugee in Kirkwall is rather difficult, yes,” Carver reminded him. “I thought you of all people knew that.”

“You should have looked for work at the Blooming Rose, if you were just going to whore yourself out to the templars.”

Carver gave him a long, cold stare. “Are you done?”

“Done mocking you?” Anders feigned an expression of thought. “No, no I don’t think I am.”

“Maker, I hate you.” 

“But I’m not telling you anything. Nor any other templar lackey they send down here to try to intimidate me,” Anders warned. “Run on back to the Knight-Captain, little Hawke. Tell him to ready the rack or… whatever it is you templars use. Andraste’s Holy Thumbscrews?”

He was joking about it. The image was visceral and horrifying, churning both painful emotions and bile in Carver’s stomach, and Ander was somehow making jokes. “For Andraste’s sake, _don’t_ —”

“If they want me to talk so bloody badly, I’m surprised they don’t just make me tranquil and be done with it,” he noted with a bitter scoff. “Although, I suppose there’s no fun in torturing a tranquil mage, is there?”

That gave Carver pause. Anders assumed he could be made Tranquil, but was that just because he never considered otherwise? “They don’t know if they can. With… the Justice thing and all that.”

“What? Why would that matter?”

“They’re afraid your memory will be affected, or—” Carver hesitated, suddenly aware that he was explaining far too much to a prisoner. Would he get into further trouble if Anders started mouthing off facts he should not have known? Or worse yet, if he learned the truth from Anders, would he be obliged to tell? Would it truly be mercy to let him be tortured or killed out of ignorance? Or was Cullen right, and the best fate Anders could hope for was to survive as one of the Circle’s Tranquil?

“Or _what_?” Anders urged, still far more aggressive than befit a man in chains. Yet Carver could not miss the worry knotting into his brows, nor the way his breath quickened in anticipation of the reply. _This terrifies him more than the torture._

“Or that it just isn’t possible to separate you from the Fade with him around. You would just be killed.”

There was a moment of stillness, uneasy and impossibly long, before Anders reacted. Once again, Carver watched with equal parts confusion and disgust as Anders somehow _smiled_ at the idea. 

“That’s… _wonderful_. I can’t believe it,” his eyes drew wide with a bewildered wonder. “They think they can’t make me tranquil. They _won’t_ make me tranquil.”

It took Anders brushing a shackled hand across his cheek for Carver to see the tears streaking down his face. He was smiling and crying, and almost laughing as he muttered to himself, repeating the news again and again, as if still not believing it. 

_Maker’s breath, is he mad?_ To call watching Anders’ reaction ‘ _awkward’_ would be vastly understating Carver’s discomfort. The word _‘disturbing’_ came to his mind. “Look, I—”

Anders held up a hand, shaking his head. He spoke with more composure and clarity than Carver expected, considering. “Scurry off now, little Hawke. I’m sure your superiors are eagerly awaiting you to report back. I have a message for them.”

He righted himself with considerable effort, fighting to keep his balance against his restraints as he stood and turned to the iron bars, meeting Carver face-to-face. He had managed to heal his eye for the most part, at least, as there were two of them narrowed at Carver in a prideful defiance. 

“Tell your masters that I will _never_ bow to them. The Circle will fall. Brick by brick, if need be. And I am more than happy to get a head start down here.”

He wanted to have the last word? Fine. Carver would let him. He was not the one who would be rotting in chains for the rest of his life under the Gallows because he refused to bloody _listen_. Carver was all too happy to turn away and leave Anders’ jeering behind him, making his way back down the corridor, the metallic footsteps ringing back at him with each agitated step. 

He had _tried_ to be nice. He tried to be sympathetic. Tried to explain things, to help— and how was he rewarded? Ridicule. Mockery. Accusations of betrayal. Threats. 

_Piss on Anders. Piss on him and his whole damn lot. He wants to die a martyr? He can go right ahead._

He must have looked at least half as angry as he felt, as the templar guard at the top of the staircase gave a chuckle as he returned to the surface, replacing the torch into its wall sconce with perhaps more force than necessary. “That one’s got quite the mouth, eh?”

“You can say that again.”

The man gave a sympathetic chuckle. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, Ser Karras and a couple of others came by too. Wanted to see if you were done with him yet. I reckon he’ll be less lippy once the Knight-Lieutenant is done with him.”

Of course it was going to be Karras. The way he had toyed with Anders in the courtyard suggested he was just the type Cullen was worried about. Also undoubtedly the only type that would volunteer for such a task. At least he could be the grand villain Anders seemed to want so badly. Carver could think of no better example of _‘templar with a sadistic streak’_ . Better than looking for one in him, when he was trying to _help_ , damn it.

“You look like you could use a drink. Or a rest. Or both.”

“Both,” Carver agreed, but unfortunately he still had to report Anders’ _‘reply’_ to Cullen. He was just about ready to jump into the sea from the highest wall the Gallows offered. Maybe the impact and cold water would finally wake him up from whatever cruel damn dream this was.


	3. Chapter 3

After the joyful experience of reporting back to Knight-Captain Cullen with an unambiguous challenge from Anders, the rest of the day’s patrols with Ser Thrask had been thankfully uneventful. While Carver had half a mind to ask for details about the Darktown raid and Anders’ capture, they were actively discouraged from talking to one another while on active duty. Or from talking to the mages and Tranquil. Or from appearing human at all, in fact. They could have mounted empty suits of armour in the hallways and along the routes and achieved the same presence that the higher-ups demanded of them. Could probably save a lot of coin on patrol staff that way, too. It was not such a bad idea, the more he considered it— the mages would have to always be guessing which templars were real, and which were decoys. That would keep them on edge. Then Carver could have at least been occupied with something else, something half productive, rather than standing in silence and replaying the conversation in the dungeons in his head on repeat. 

On any other day, Carver might have shared the idea of suits of armour on patrol with Ser Dennis, when the young man stopped by his quarters that evening per his usual fashion. He would probably have found the idea amusing, and perhaps even pitched an improvement or two, but Carver was not in the mood for jokes or lighthearted discussion. Or, really, discussion at all, when he thought of it.

“Hey Fereldan,” he knocked on the frame of Carver’s open door, but helped himself in without further prompt. “Word around the tower is that the Knight-Captain wanted to speak with you.”

He was perhaps a couple years younger than Carver, but the lad gossiped like an Orlesian widower. To some, it might have been an irritating quality, but to a new face surrounded by men and women who had served and trained together for years, chatty gossips were a welcome sight. At least someone was bothering to learn his name and check up on him from time to time. 

“Aye,” Carver replied, despite knowing a curt answer would not save him from the questions still to come. He remained seated at his desk, barely turning to acknowledge his guest. Perhaps the impression of busyness would save him, instead. 

“So? Why is the Knight-Captain summoning a fresh recruit by name?” Dennis helped himself to a piece of wall to lean against. “Either you’ve messed up _horribly_ , or you’ve quickly gotten on someone’s good side. Somehow.”

“Neither, actually.” Carver saw no reason to lie. If they were going to whisper rumours about him, or look to ridicule him behind his back, it might as well be about the truth and not some invented story about special treatment or a mistake he didn’t make. “He wanted me to speak with one of the mages. He hoped I might be able to convince him to cooperate.”

“Something tells me he didn’t.”

Carver shook his head.

“Why did the Knight-Captain ask _you_ , then? Did you know him?”

“In a sense,” Carver slumped in his chair. That was quickly becoming a very tiresome question. “We travelled together for a time.” 

“The noble Ser Carver, travelling with wanted apostates?” Ser Dennis teased. “You really did get around. So what makes him so special to warrant such attention?”

“He was harbouring other apostates, helping them escape Kirkwall. They wanted names and locations.”

“Ah, the rebellious type, then.” Dennis nodded in understanding. “No wonder he refused. A shame, I bet the Knight-Captain would have rewardly you nicely if you got him to talk.”

A reward was the last thing on Carver’s mind. “Yeah, a real shame.”

“So what did you try?” Dennis asked eagerly. At times, he almost reminded Carver of Varric, always trying to find ideas for one of his blighted stories. They both seemed to revel in the _‘juicy details’_ of anything they heard. “Did you have any dirt on him? Blackmail? Ask about his family?”

“No, I—” Carver scowled at the prospect, and especially the fact that Dennis would suggest it so casually. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ser Dennis raised an eyebrow. “What? Why so torn up? You did what you could. No harm done.”

 _There’s plenty of harm being done. Just apparently not the kind anyone cares about._ “Just… it’s been a long day. Do you mind?”

The sudden tonal change seemed to surprise Ser Dennis, but to his credit he did not press the matter. “Of course. I’ll leave you be. Just— oh, before I go, I meant to ask if you, uh— had any lyrium to spare.”

The nervousness in Dennis’ voice was hard to ignore, or the way he lowered his voice and glanced out the door upon the mention of lyrium. To be fair, there was a rather uncomfortable implication in the question. “Am I _supposed_ to have extra? I just have the supply they gave me for the month.”

Ser Dennis undoubtedly noticed the suspicion in his voice, as he waved his hand as if to dismiss the unspoken accusation. “I just meant that if you could spare an aliquot, or skimp your dose for a few days— Miles got his ration taken away, and I think he’s stolen my last dose. I don’t have any left, and my resupply isn’t for another week.”

“Maker’s breath, what did he do?” Even just a few days into lyrium withdrawal was said to be maddeningly painful. This was the first Carver had ever heard of it being used _intentionally_ as punishment.

“If you can believe, he was apparently twirling his key ring while patrolling one of the battlements and— _whoosh_ ,” Ser Dennis mirrored the twirl with one finger, then the arc of the invisible keys flying away. “Right into the water.”

“They took away his rations for _that_? What were they the keys for, the Knight-Commander’s privy?” 

“I don’t know. But here I am, suffering just as much as stupid Miles for it. Do you think they’d give me an advance if I explained what happened?”

Carver shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong guy.”

“Crap, I don’t want to get Miles in more heat though.” He scratched his head in thought. “Maybe I’ll just… not mention him. You keep your room locked up tight while you’re not around, yeah? The poor bastard doesn’t need any more temptation.”

With his final warning issued, Dennis took his leave. Carver gave him a half-hearted wave, grateful that he shut the door behind him. He returned his attention to his desk, and to the unfinished letter staring up at him, but he felt no more inspired than he had prior to Ser Dennis’ visit. What was he supposed to write? 

> _‘Hello Mother,_
> 
> _Everything is going great here! Learning new things every day.  
>  Anders got captured this week, sadly. Do you remember him?  
> Blond fellow, Grey Warden, ran a clinic out of the undercity.  
> He was the one who helped Garrett plan his Deep Roads expedition.  
> Real shame, they’re probably going to torture and execute him.  
> Guess it’s how it goes sometimes.  
> Tell Gamlen he still owes me forty silver for drinks. _
> 
> _Lots of love, Carver’_

Maker damn it all. Why did Anders have to _joke_ about it? It was bad enough without Carver imagining it— Anders stretched on on some wooden contraption, body spasming in pain as Ser Karras watched, looming, demanding him to break. What was it going to be? Hot iron? Pulling out his nails? Andraste’s Holy Thumbscrews? Varric had once talked about the bizarre torture methods they apparently used in Antiva. At the time he had barely blinked at the idea— maybe winced a little as he imagined the pain, but now… now, even trying to recount the description was enough to set his skin crawling, throat twisting in irritation. 

It was like Ostagar all over again. His squad had joked the entire march to the forward camp about the darkspawn, describing their ugly faces and awful stench, each taking their turn trying to imitate their guttural shrieks, and then telling stories of how a hurlock could rip a man’s arms clean off if given the opportunity. And then Carver could only watch as some of them _became_ that opportunity. Stories were one thing, but even the most gruesome tales never reflected the true horror of the reality. Had they been so daft to joke about such things? So naive to speak about the nightmares so casually, as if they only existed in storybooks and folktales?

Cullen had said little when Carver reported back, but even that had been enough to contort Carver’s stewing frustrations into even more painful feelings. He would speak of _‘interrogation_ ’ and _‘questioning’_ , as if a pretty word would make the order any less cruel, or him any less guilty for issuing it. Even if Cullen never saw Anders, or what Ser Karras was going to do to him, his hands were sullied in the matter. 

And what of Carver’s hands? Was he not involved now, too? An obedient little soldier, doing as commanded without question. If he had told the Knight-Captain some lie, or asked for more time to convince Anders, perhaps he could have avoided this outcome. Or perhaps he would have only delayed the inevitable. Maybe it would be all for naught. After all, if he hadn’t joined the templars, it would have been the same. Anders would still be locked in the Gallows, refusing to cooperate, and awaiting whatever cruel fate the templars had planned for him. There would just be one less person feeling guilty about it.

But _why_ did he feel so damned guilty about it?

Was this the future that awaited him? Not defeating abominations, or taking down cartas with hired blood mages, or watching over young mages as they learned to protect themselves from demonic possession. No, apparently what awaited him was a lifetime of watching glorified prisoners, and pretending not to see the abuses around him. They should add that to the next revision of the Chant: _‘Blessed are the jail keepers, the champions of torment._ The templars loved to cite the Chant, magic not ruling over man, but what were they doing if not ruling over mages? Were they not men, too? 

Was it only Kirkwall that was so corrupted, or had the Templar Order back in Ferelden been just as brutal? None of the templars in Lothering ever spoke of such things, never seemed the type who would stand by and allow for someone to be tortured. 

Of course, Ser Dennis didn’t seem the type either, and yet he did not seem phased at all by the idea of Carver threatening Anders to get what he needed. And for all of Cullen’s concern of avoiding unnecessary violence, his complaints were going to fall silent once it was deemed _‘necessary’_. 

The candle on Carver’s desk was growing dangerously low, and he really did not want to light another just to sit quietly and continue to wrestle with his feelings of contempt, especially considering how early he was expected to be up the next morning. But Maker, he did _not_ feel like sleeping. 

_Templars don’t have curfews, right?_

They weren’t the ones under lock and key. There was nothing wrong with going for a night-time walk to clear his mind. No need to worry about being caught. No need at all. 

* * *

There was a different guard posted outside of the stairwell leading to the dungeon. Of course there was, it was late at night, and he had been on duty that morning. They weren’t going to make the same templar stand there for that long. Yet Carver was still surprised to see the large balding man there, as if he suddenly ruined everything he had planned. Not that he _had_ anything planned, of course. He was just going for a walk. 

When the man locked eyes with him, he felt his skin jump, as if he was back in some run-down warehouse with his brother, and just found the thugs that had been waiting to ambush them. He definitely had the right build for that type of work— the man was a good four inches taller than him, and enough muscle to match the height. 

“What, are you my relief?” The templar called out to him. 

Carver realized in horror that his arm had instinctively risen to grab his sword— except, of course, it wasn’t there. He was just going for a walk. Why would he need a sword? — so instead, he just had one arm raised above his head like an idiot. He must have looked like he was waving to the man.

“You’re here early.”

Panic swelled in his chest, and with no better lie ready, Carver nodded emphatically. “Yeah, that’s me.”

The templar cracked his neck. “Where’s the usual guy?”

“I… I just got asked to cover last minute.” Carver felt sweat beading on his temple. “I’ve never done this patrol before and, uh. Thought I’d come early. To… ask about it. The patrol.”

If his brother, or Varric, or Isabela, or— hell, if _anyone_ had been there to witness the mess of a conversation he was having, Carver would have never heard the end of it. 

Thankfully, it seemed as though the bald man just took Carver for an idiot. Which, apparently, wasn’t that far from the truth. 

“New recruit eager to prove yourself, eh?” He gave a derisive snort. “This job will get rid of that quick enough. There ain’t much to tell. Shift’ll change at dawn. We actually have a prisoner, for once, so at some point you’re supposed to go down there and throw the blighter some water. Truthfully, some nights I just let the morning guy deal with him. It’s a lot of bloody stairs to go down there.”

“That’s… it?”

“Aye. Suppose there’s the “don’t let anyone through” bit, but it’s not like we’re guarding the kitchen lauder. Only an idiot would want _into_ the dungeons.” 

He gave a small laugh at that. Carver laughed along, trying his best to hide the feeling of horror growing in his stomach. The man didn’t know. There was no way he knew. 

“Such are the glorious duties of a templar,” he concluded, unfastening a key ring from his belt. “Lesson over. Now do an old templar a favour and take over early, I haven’t had a good sleep in _weeks_. They keep giving me these blighted graveyard shifts.”

Carver hadn’t even the time to agree before the man thrust the keys into his hands and patted him on the back as he walked past, making for the exit. He had to take a moment to pause and process what he had just witnessed, still staring dumbfounded at the keys. Perhaps it was not so surprising that Kirkwall was having issues with their mages if this was what the Order considered to be elite and dedicated warriors. Or perhaps there was a good reason the man was always getting graveyard shifts. 

It proved a new turn of events, at least. Carver had assumed the stairway to the dungeons would have been where his ‘stroll’ would end. Perhaps he might have had the courage to ask the guard if anyone had come by, or inquire for any news on the prisoner. Yet now he stood, keys in hand, with a perfect opportunity to go down himself _‘unofficially’_ . Although, actually unofficially this time. He did not want to think of it so wishfully, but he could not deny the way it felt. It was as if the Maker himself was carving the path out for him— he needed only follow it down the stone staircase. Truly, it would be an affront at this point to _not_ go. 

The torch sat within its iron pedestal, waiting for him. He did not hesitate in accepting it and beginning his winding descent. 

It was silly to admit, but Carver somehow felt even _more_ blind in the hallway that night. Seemed logical enough— things were darker at night, after all. Then he realized he was a moron, and sunlight had not visited the tunnel in a long time. Had the Tevinter Slavers of old cast some foul magic upon the stones, such that they consumed all the light that came within? Some illusion to further weaken the resolve of their prisoners, in hopes of them succumbing to despair? In such a darkness, it was easy to imagine such vile intent. His eyes had to strain past their limit to look for any shape or motion in the cells as he passed by each. With no pale glow to lead the way, he had little other choice. They all looked identical, and Anders’ cell had been far enough down the corridor that he hadn’t bothered trying to count.

Luckily, Carver did not need a glow or glint to catch his attention. He paused his footfalls for a moment, and in the quiet of the hall he could make out the sound of strained breathing.

“Anders?” He whispered to the darkness, although he doubted there was any risk of anyone hearing, considering how deep the dungeons were beneath the keep. He approached the next cell with his torch raised high, trying to see some shadow move upon the ground in the light. The groan in reply came from the wall— and there he found Anders, this time shackled in place in nothing but his smallclothes, hair loose and falling over his face. Even from a distance, Carver could see the bruises forming on his ribs and waist, but otherwise no other serious injuries were obvious. 

Then the torchlight caught queerly on the floor, the stone appearing to twinkle up at him. It was something dark and slick, and apparently pooling around Anders’ legs and feet.

“Oh, _Maker_.”

Carver fumbled through the keys on the ring, all the while trying to convince himself that he was just seeing things, or overreacting. There was no way they were going to let him bleed out overnight. They would not risk him dying, not if they wanted information. 

Not _intentionally_ , at least.

It took him far too long to find the right key— they all looked the damned same in the torchlight. All the while, Anders’ pained breaths continued, echoing in the halls and in his ears. He deposited his torch in the empty wall sconce within the cell, next to the chains that held Anders aloft, giving him enough light to finally see the full extent of his injuries.

The shackles were positioned low enough to permit Anders to sit slumped against the wall with his legs outstretched, but still short enough that his arms were held over his head, the manacles digging into his wrists, opening the skin. The blood was not only on the floor, but streaked across the wall behind him, dripping down his back in thick, red streams. What wasn’t covered in blood showed Carver all he needed to know.

Lashing.

The largest of the welts were still slowly bleeding, as the skin had been torn apart so wide that it was unable to close on its own, like red fissures erupting from his back. Much of the smaller wounds were almost like ribbons of skin, long and thin, crossing and overlapping with each other in a dark, fleshy web.

It was not even a conscious movement, but Carver’s hand moved to Anders’ shoulder, looking to pull him away from the wall. The moment he made contact, though, Anders jerked violently back, crying out as he slammed the open wounds into the stone.

“Anders— Anders, it’s me.” Carver knelt beside him, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. When Anders recovered his composure enough to open his eyes, it was a dark glare that looked up at him through his disheveled hair.

“ _Don’t_ —” He flinched as Carver moved closer, voice cracking. “ _Don’t_ touch me.”

“I’m not here to hurt you, I—”

“I don’t care. You’re just another one of them.”

Carver may not have been the one chained to the wall, but the fury in Anders’ gaze felt every bit as paralyzing. “I just want to help.”

“Then do us both a favour and leave. I’m sick of seeing your face every time I open my eyes.” Anders tried to move, but only managed to strain slightly against his restraints, face contorting with pain. “Or you could be so kind as to release me. I’d _love_ to crisp your stupid face myself.”

_That’s right. The keys._

Carver flipped back through them, comparing each of them to the iron cuffs, Anders watching up in bewilderment.

“I wasn’t joking about the face-crisping bit, you know.”

“Too big,” Carver muttered. “They’re all the wrong size.”

“Are you daft?” He squinted against the light of the torch as Carver gave up on the keys and attempted to pry the manacles open by hand. “Or is this some sort of game to you? Seeing if I get my hopes up?”

Carver was more than tired of the accusations. He gave the manacles one last frustrated shake, growling back. “Have you maybe _considered_ that I’m the only person in this entire damn place who cares about what happens to you?” 

For once, Anders did not immediately snap back at him with some cruel or mocking comment. A wave of brief confusion passed over his face, softening his expression, if for just a moment. Then the judging scowl returned. “Why? Suddenly grown a conscience, have you? Now that you see the atrocities going on as you stand by.”

“This isn’t what the templars are supposed to do.” Carver sank back into a crouch. Anders began to cough, but Carver knew that the sound was meant to be a dismissive laugh.

“I’m afraid it is, little Hawke. They just keep this part out of the Chantry’s songs.”

Carver still refused to believe it. “Back in Ferelden, the Order would never—”

“Keep a mage locked alone for a year?” This time, there was no humour in his voice, no smile on his face. “They may not have used tranquility as punishment, or flayed men alive for information, but they were no better. The templars here see us as wild beasts to be hunted and tamed. In Ferelden, we were sheep to be minded by our dear _‘shepherds’_. But no better than animals to either. Both saw us as less than human.”

So many retorts came to mind, the echoes of so many voices Carver had heard throughout his life— chantry sisters, templars, mercenaries at Ostagar, drunks in the Hanged Man, nobles in hightown. 

_‘Mages are dangerous.’_

_‘Even the most well-intentioned child can be tempted by a demon.’_

_‘The allure of power corrupts everyone eventually.’_

Even his father’s voice came back from his memories, scolding Garrett and Bethany for playing with their magic like one of their toys, warning, _‘It only takes one careless mistake, and we prove their worst fears to be true.’_

Yet in that moment, Carver could not bring himself to listen to any of them.

Instead, his thoughts lingered on the image of Anders in a cell, not so dissimilar from his current one, huddled in a corner, eyes wide and unseeing, lips moving to form words no one could hear. A _year_ in solitude… men had gone mad from far less. Perhaps Anders had, too. Perhaps that was why he was this way. Broken, angry, and consumed with hatred for the atrocities he endured, for those who would do such things, for those who would allow such things to happen. 

Like Carver was letting it happen.

“ _No_ ,” he said aloud, albeit not intentionally. 

“No?” Anders turned his glare back towards him. “You deny it then?”

“No, just— nothing. I can’t get you free, but…” Carver reached into the supply pouch on his hip, pulling out the larger of the two vials held within. Anders wrinkled his nose.

“What’s that? Poison to finish the job?”

“Do you think I carry poison around just for fun?”

“Of course not. Strictly for business, I imagine.” Anders’ voice strained as he winced in pain again. “Please tell me it’s the kind that makes your throat close up, and not the evacuate-your-bowels-until-you-die kind.”

“You still do talk a lot for someone nearly bleeding to death.” Carver uncorked the vial.

“I think one of your friends said the same thing to me when they had me strung up from the ceiling.” Anders turned his head away as Carver offered him the vial. “Is this his idea? Or are you still doing the Knight-Captain’s dirty work for him?

“It’s a health potion, nug-face. Not poison.” Carver took a quick swig to prove his point. “See?”

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but apparently not at the potion. “Did.. you seriously just call me ‘ _nug-face_ ’?”

“Shut up and drink it.”

Anders still managed half a smirk as Carver held up his chin, lifting the vial to his lips. He raised it slowly, trying his best not to spill any, for he knew only too well how expensive the damn things were. At first, Anders watched the vial with a singular focus, twisting his face somewhat as his tongue caught its first taste of the bitter liquid. But once he managed to swallow down that initial sample, his eyes fell shut almost automatically. He drank deep, mouthful after mouthful, and Carver watched as his neck bobbed with each one. His body was beginning to relax, too— he unclenched his fists and loosened the tension in his shoulders. He even allowed his neck to relax, head falling at the mercy of Carver’s grasp with a deep exhale. Carver had only planned to give him half the bottle’s contents, but seeing how eagerly and desperately he drank, he conceded that Anders perhaps needed the full dose. He continued to lift the vial until it was completely inverted, encouraging the last bit of liquid out. 

Then Anders opened his eyes, and looked at him.

With what little light they had, his irises looked almost black, but he saw no rage in them. No hatred. No hint of Justice’s wrath. He saw only a quiet consideration, as if Anders was looking at him properly for the first time. 

For some reason, that made Carver more nervous than the anger.

Then he felt the heat begin to rise in his face, and immediately feared it was showing. He turned away violently, ripping the bottle from Anders’ lips, spilling the last few drops across the apostate’s already dirty face. He did not have to look back to know that Anders was smiling.

“I feel better already.” His voice implied as much, too. It was stronger, confident, more like the renegade apostate they had found in Darktown.

“I bet.” Carver turned back around, but focused on re-corking the bottle instead of meeting Anders’ gaze. “The way you drank it, I’d have sworn it was Antivan wine.”

“That’s not a bad idea. You think you could bring some next time? I like a rich red, myself.” As if to emphasize the idea, he licked the potion that had begun to trail down his face— or, at least, as much of it as his tongue could reach, as most of it had already trickled down his chin and neck.

“Suddenly there’s a _‘next time’_ , now?” Carver stood up, hoping he looked more dignified than he felt. “Just a moment ago you were spitting at me to leave.”

“I don’t think you’d waste a potion on someone you were going to let die in a templar dungeon.”

“Perhaps it’s an act of mercy.”

“The poison would have been a mercy. The potion is giving me hope.”

 _Then perhaps that was a mistake, too_. 

What exactly did he expect Carver to do? Just set him free, try his luck at blasting through enough templars to make it back to Kirkwall? Or was he supposed to smuggle the Knight-Commander's most treasured prisoner out from under her nose? Unless someone gave the order for Anders to go free, there was no way he was going to escape the Gallows alive. Or, at least, not as _'Anders'_ in any sense. 

Perhaps the best Anders could hope for _was_ mercy. Carver could come back with that wine he wanted, sweetened with death, and end the suffering while giving Anders one final reason to smile. It certainly would be a better fate than Ser Thrask would ever give him.

Carver retrieved the torch from the wall sconce and turned to leave without a word. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the smile fall away from Anders’ face.

“Carver?” He asked, but Carver kept his head bowed as he locked the cell door behind him. Anders feigned a nervous laugh. “You… you _are_ going to come back, right? Carver?” 

He couldn't bear to look. He just couldn't. “I'm… sorry, Anders.”

“Wh— ‘ _sorry_ ’? Carver, don't—” Anders rattled in his restraints, trying to get his attention again. The confusion was quickly turning to anger. “You can't just leave me like this. Hawke would _never—_ ” 

That might have been true. Perhaps his brother would have pledged to save Anders no matter the consequences, or would have found a way to break him out right then and there. But Carver was not his brother, and his brother was not there to save them. They were the left-behinds, and the mighty Hawke wasn't going to show up to save the day this time. 

“ _Carver_!” Anders called out, and it was not anger in his voice any longer. The name echoed down the hallway, following him in all its despair as he left Anders to be swallowed by the darkness again.

* * *

Carver did not return to the dungeons the next night. 

He and the others in Ser Thrask’s command had patrol of the mages’ tower that night, and unlike playing sentry in the dungeons, it was a highly scrutinized shift. If a mage was ever to try to escape, or hold secret meetings, or spirit away into some hidden alcove for any number of forbidden activities, they would do so at night under the cover of darkness. For that reason, the templars saw fit to see the corridors and common areas well-lit throughout the night, keeping every available torch and sconce lit at all times. At least it was more difficult to fall asleep on duty as a result.

Carver did not return to the dungeons the following night, either.

He had nothing stopping him from doing so. No watchful guardsman in a well-lit hallway making sure he didn’t sneak off again, no risk of punishment for being out after a mandated curfew. For all that Anders’ expressions haunted him as he tried to sleep, he could not find the strength to return. He had nothing to offer him; no way to help him, no means of escape, no promise of a quick death. Perhaps the last two could be synonymous, in this case. But without a plan, all he would be doing was giving Anders false hope. 

Instead, Carver spent the night in the common area with some of the other templars, trying to avoid the thoughts that had plagued him while on duty all day. He played a couple rounds of Diamondback with Dennis and a few others, but found himself struggling to care about the game. Eventually, Carver relegated himself to just watching, enjoying some reprieve as they chided each other for terrible bluffs, or commented on how Miles was still begging for spare lyrium like some darktown urchin. Carver could even laugh at the jokes about how the stew they had served that night had tasted like some Ferelden specialty— because honestly, they weren’t wrong. It was the closest thing to ‘home cooking’ they had served since Carver joined. 

Unfortunately, Carver could not bring himself to smile whenever the conversation inevitably turned back to the topic of the mages in the circle. Most of the templars did not speak cruelly— or at the very least, did not do so aloud over card games. A few of them would even sound pitiful, if not worried about their charges. They would wince at the way the mages were being treated, or comment on strange behaviour that made them fear what was to come. But Maker’s breath, they _really_ needed to learn to talk about something else. Apparently, living and working exclusively within the Order left room for little else in conversation topics. With the way they spoke, Carver suspected that most of them had never been outside of Kirkwall, or, at the very least, hadn’t been for years. For some, the Gallows might have been the only place they had ever called _‘home’_. Dennis had apparently been a Lowtown orphan, given to the Chantry after his mother died of frost-cough, and then given again to the Order once he could start swinging a sword. Many of them had lived within the fortress walls for decades, and would continue to live there for decades to come. Likely die there, too. If they were lucky, it might be by some rogue mage, caught off-guard by one too many spells while starting to fall out of their prime. If they were unlucky, it would be in their quarters, old and shaking, brain addled from years of lyrium use. In a way, the Gallows were their prison, too. Just one they took pride in.

It almost made Carver miss the days when his brother would drag him to the Broken Coast on some fool’s errand, or even the days with the Red Iron, cleaning up noblemen’s dirty work, or handling the odd Spider-infested mine. At least they had gotten to see some of the world, even if it was a tad blood-stained by the time they were done. Instead, Carver could only look forward to a lifetime of the same damn patrols and posts of the Gallows. Or, at least, until a promotion in rank. Yet Carver noted the Knight-Lieutenants seemed to be no better at conversation than their subordinates— even Knight-Lieutenant Robin couldn’t help but constantly talk of mages after deciding to join in on their card game. It was all they ever seemed to talk about. Were they all truly so desensitized to the topic that they could speak of their prisoners so casually? It was like listening to farmers complaining about a troublesome herd of cows—

_‘…we were sheep to be minded by our dear ‘shepherds’…’_

— was he truly the only one of them who was struggling so much with what the Order asked of him? Had they all gone through the same disillusionment? Just resolved the guilt and worries, and returned to business as usual? No doubt the ones who struggled too much were gone. If not by choice, then forcibly so— there was that beggar in Lowtown, the one Ser Thrask talked about. Samson. If Miles thought he had it bad without lyrium, he should have thanked the Maker that it was only temporary. His brother had apparently talked with him, heard the man was helping runaway mages, but the man that they had found supposedly looked worse than half the homeless in Darktown. Claimed that the Knight-Commander threw him out when he was helping the Mages in the Circle. 

_Shit. What if they found out I gave Anders that potion?_

The more they spoke of mages, the more the worries plagued him almost constantly now. When Carver finally excused himself to bed, the same voices kept him from finding sleep. He would close his eyes and see shackles, bloodied flesh, eyes staring back at him, furious one moment, pleading the next. 

For all the training in _‘denying’_ magic and stopping the ‘ _manipulation’_ of the world, none of Carver’s new templar abilities were helping him now. Evidently, it wasn’t just their magic that made them powerful; their words could manipulate him just as well, and they were far harder to deny. If the Chantry knew that, it was a small wonder that it kept them all locked up.


	4. **

The stone stairwell seemed to go down into the bowels of the earth itself. Carver hastened his strides, taking the steps two at a time, yet still it continued downwards, ever deeper. Perhaps the way down had always been this far, and it was only now that he was realizing it, when every footfall felt like a swing of a clock’s pendulum, another moment past, forever wasted. What was each step, each moment, going to cost Anders?

It felt like half an eternity before he reached the bottom, and by that point he was sprinting through the hallway. The torch almost floated in his hand, columns of light bouncing back at him from the iron bars he ran past cell after cell. He did not let his armour slow him down; his legs were free to take long, bounding strides into the darkness, as if he were wearing nothing at all. Instead, the pain came from his chest— a fervor was possessing his heart, making it race, threatening to erupt through his ribs. His arms felt both impossibly heavy and numb, the feeling in his fingers nearly disappear entirely

Worst of all was the shrill cry that rang in his ears— or, was it echoing in the hallway? It was impossible for Carver to tell. Real, or another strange artefact of his panicking body, it made no difference. He had to get to Anders’ cell before it was too late.

A pair of helmeted, faceless templars stood in the opened entryway, holding a pair of torches for the occupants, but they parted out of the way wordlessly for Carver, not so much as turning their heads or nodding to acknowledge him. Carver had no doubt they would feign ignorance of what happened, claiming to have not seen anyone or anything while on patrol. 

Within, however, two different heads spun to greet him, and two voices called out in unison—

“ _ Carver _ .”

Not a question, not an accusation, not even a curious acknowledgement. Both Ser Karras and Anders were expecting him, perhaps even waiting for him to interrupt. The manacles around Anders’ wrists were strung through an iron ring on the ceiling in the centre of the cell, pulling him upright such that his heels could not touch the ground. Even without Ser Karras touching him, he swayed to and fro, attempting to keep his balance upon his toes and strain off his arms. Karras walked in a circle around him, snapping the lash upon the ground like a thunderclap. Anders started at the sound, wincing and gasping as the manacles pulled and twisted at his already mangled body.

“No more!” Cried Carver, putting himself between Anders and the templar. “This has to stop!”

“Are you giving  _ me  _ orders, Ser Carver?” Karras kept his voice calm. With the guards’ torchlight behind him, Carver could barely see his face. Like talking to a shadow. “Stand aside.”

“No. This isn’t right.”

“He has something we need,” he replied. “Once he tells us what we want to know, he’ll be free to die.”

“That’s not right, either!”

“Why not? He killed three of our men to avoid capture.”

“And how many did  _ you _ kill in Darktown?” Carver scoffed. “That’s not justice.”

“Would you have us let him go, then? This abomination who openly decries the Chantry and its teachings? Who openly admits to plotting a Mage rebellion against the circle.”

“The only abomination I see in here is you.”

The pain registered before Carver even knew what caused it, for suddenly he was on the ground with an open wound on his cheek and the taste of blood in his mouth. Ser Karras did not bother to even look down at him. “Mind yourself, boy, or you’ll be next.”

Carver could only see Karras’ legs walking towards Anders as he struggled to find his footing. It was suddenly so dark. Where had his torch gone? He was just holding it.

“Seeing as Ser Carver will be joining us, perhaps something different is in order.” The lash fell to the ground by his feet. “Get him down from there.”

The two templars pushed by, still not acknowledging him, and all Carver could do was watch. What was he supposed to do? Fight all three of them? Kill them and set Anders free? What about the scores of other templars in the Gallows? Why was he even here?

Anders raised his gaze as his tether was loosened from the ceiling, but he looked only at Carver. His mouth moved, and though no words escaped them, his eyes spoke clearly enough.  _ Help me. Stop this. What are you waiting for? _

“Ser Karras,  _ please _ ,” Carver turned back to the Knight-Lieutenant. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s ‘please’ now, is it?” Karras watched as Anders was thrown at his feet, the templars each restraining an arm as they kept their prisoner on his knees. “What happened to the threats and insults?”

He circled Anders again, examining him with a newfound curiosity.

“And what has this mage done to inspire such devotion in a templar, hm?” He wrapped a hand around Anders’ jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Is this part of your plan? You have some sort of leverage over our men?”

“What, no—”

“I wasn’t asking you,” he snapped at Carver. “Tell me, mage. What is it? Offering smuggled lyrium in return for favours? Bribes? Blackmail?”

Anders said nothing.

“Let’s try that again.” Karras released his grip and stepped back, nodding to the templars. With some effort, they lifted Anders up and kicked one of his legs out from under him, offering his knee to Ser Karras.

Carver’s cry was quickly drowned out by Anders’ scream as Ser Karras brought down one of his greaves onto the leg. The crack alone left no doubt to the damage, but Carver had to suppress a gag as he saw the way the calf twisted beneath Anders, his foot limp in the absolute wrong direction. Blood began to spill from his knee, where one of his bones was now stabbing through the flesh. 

“So you haven’t lost your voice. Good, good.” Karras had to raise his own to be heard over Anders’ wailing and sobbing. “Then tell me how you smuggle apostates out of Kirkwall right from under our noses. If you aren’t using some sort of hidden passage, there must be traitors in our ranks. Who are they?”

If Ser Karras was truly expecting an answer, and not simply rambling to himself as he took out his frustrations on a prisoner, he was very patient about it. Anders was not capable of giving a reply even if he wanted, as his voice was breaking with effort, unable to scream, let alone speak. Instead, he whimpered and choked on airy noises of distress as he continued to writhe against the templars’ grasp. 

“You look upset, boy.” Karras turned to Carver. “Is it not your duty to serve the Templar Order? To protect the people from the evils of magic?”

Carver could hardly believe his ears, that someone could be so vile and claim it as their duty. “You’re a monster.”

“And  _ you _ know more than you’re telling us.”

Despite the instinct to flee growing stronger in his stomach, Carver refused to back down. “What, are you going to torture me now, too?”

Perhaps not the wisest thing to challenge the insane, sadistic templar to try, but Carver was still a sworn member of the Order. 

_ He can’t. He wouldn’t dare.  _

At least, that’s what Carver thought, until he saw the cruel grin that grew on Karras’ face.

“I think I already have been,” he remarked coldly. “Knights, help ensure that Ser Carver… stays safe. We wouldn’t want him hurting himself.”

As commanded, the templars discarded Anders to the floor, turning their faceless gazes to Carver for the first time. His hand once again flew to his shoulder— and once again, found nothing there to grab.

Where was his sword?

_ Where is my fucking sword. _

As Carver helplessly grasped for a sword that wasn’t there, two pairs of greaves mirrored their previous hold on Anders, grabbing an arm each. Carver moved to tear himself free, but it was too late. The power swelled in their grip, and with it, Carver felt his own being sapped from his body, an almost paralyzing grasp tightening around the muscles of his arms and legs, sending him to his knees. They left him barely enough energy to keep his eyes open, pausing their siphoning just as his vision briefly dipped away. Even as a templar himself, Carver still hated fighting bloody templars.

“The way you cried out, I’d have sworn it was  _ your _ leg I broke.” Karras moved behind Anders, but it was Carver he watched with each step. “What is it? Could the poor Fereldan mutt not afford a Hightown whore like the rest of us? Had to settle for whatever piss-covered Darktown tramp would take you?”

Rage swelled within Carver, giving him back enough strength to try to wrench himself free, but not enough to overpower the two templars holding him.

“Touched a nerve, did I?” Ser Karras nudged Anders with his foot, sending him onto the flat of his stomach. Anders propped himself up on his forearms, but found no purchase on his one usable leg to try to stand otherwise. “I can think of a few others to poke at, then.”

Carver watched in horrified confusion as Karras pulled out a vial of lyrium. He threw it back violently, letting out half a snarl after he swallowed. As he kneeled down beside Anders, Carver realized he had taken only a fraction of the contents, as Ser Karras began to pour the remainder onto the bloody fissures that still decorated Anders’ back.

“What in Andraste’s name—?!”

Carver did not have a chance to finish his question, for Anders’ newfound cries of agony gave him the answer. He began a feeble attempt to crawl away, hands scrambling at the stone floor, one leg kicking out behind him, but Karras kept him firmly held in place with a grasp around the nape of his neck. “What’s wrong, robe? I thought mages drew on lyrium to power their magic? I’m just giving it to you more… directly.”

Carver’s blood ran cold. The templar’s lyrium draughts felt like swallowing liquid fire, scorching your tongue to numbness and burning all the way down your throat. The way it must have felt on exposed flesh, on raw nerves— Carver could not even begin to imagine the pain, although Anders’ screams gave him some idea. “Maker’s blood, Karras— you’re going to kill him!”

“Pity, that. Although since he wasn’t talking anyways… “ He tilted his head, considering the way Anders’ skin began to blister and discolour, turning paler, if not the same ghastly blue of the lyrium. “Do you think we could bring out his little demon friend one last time?”

“I don’t know anything Karras, I swear,” Carver pleaded. “Stop this!”

“Now, you see the issue is… you lied to me before.” Karras shook his head in disappointment. “How can I trust that you’re telling the truth now?”

Carver wanted to scream, wanted to punch Karras in his stupid face, wanted to drive his sword through his heart and watch that stupid pleased look in his eyesfade away. Even if it meant he ended up like Samson, homeless and begging on the street for lyrium, it would be worth it to see him get the retribution he deserved. But right now, he was at Karras’ mercy, and all the rage in the world would do him no good. “I swear it. I… ask me anything, I’ll tell you what I know. But I swear I don’t—”

“Do you hear that, mage?” Karras hovered an arm above Anders’ back, focusing the lyrium in his hand again. “Your little pet here is going to tell me everything to save you. Is that what you want?”

A visible wave of force sprung from his hand, and Anders' head jerked back, body spasming as the lyrium was pushed deeper into his body. The sound that came from his throat was not human, not mortal. At first it was no more than a howl of rage, ripping Anders to his feet as if by marionette strings, no longer caring which body parts were functional or in one piece. Then it was a voice, bellowing, breathing the Fade itself into the world with each syllable, like a dragon’s flame. “You will  _ not _ —”

Then, just like in the Gallows courtyard, Karras clenched his fist, and burst the pocket of lyrium in his grasp. Anders fell to the floor again, clawing and grasping at his throat, gasping soundlessly as his legs spasmed beneath him. The hands held fast as Carver lunged forwards again. It felt as though their fingers dug into his flesh, sucking away whatever strength he could muster back into their clutches. At last, a noise escaped Anders’ gaping mouth, and he began to cough and retch violently, creating a small puddle of bile that was more blood than anything else.

“Oh, I’m afraid I will,” Ser Karras insisted, hand pulsing with the power of newly focused lyrium. “I will do  _ whatever  _ I please.”

He gave Carver a dark look. 

“And right now, I think I want to know what it’s like to fuck an abomination.”

_ This isn’t happening.  _

Carver felt the thought louder than any of the other voices that screamed in his head, including a few that he apparently had screamed aloud, too. Yet that phrase was the one that he found repeating in his mind, again, and again, and again.

_ This isn’t happening,  _ he told himself, even as Ser Karras put a foot on Anders’ back, removing his gauntlets, and then his pauldrons. 

_ This isn’t happening _ , the voice insisted, as Karras loosened the sash around his waist, his skirt falling to the ground, Anders squirming feebly under his weight.

_ This isn’t happening _ , he was assured, as Anders begged and sobbed, muttering incoherently, and Carver had the dreadful sense that this was not something new to him. Was the phrase supposed to bring him comfort? Supposed to stop him from straining, stop him from swearing, stop him from promising to tear out Karras’ throat with his bare hands? Because it did none of those things. 

He still heard the phrase echoing, louder than his own cries, as Karras used one arm to hold Anders down, palm still emanating a sick white flame that wrapped around the mangled skin of his back, as the other stripped him of what little clothing he had left. The voice begged him to believe his thoughts, not his eyes, not as they watched in horror, unblinking as Karras thrust into Anders with a wicked growl, taking utter pleasure as he defiled him without mercy. The world seemed to slow, falling into a blur, and Carver realized it was tears blocking his vision, although he could feel them on his face. The horrid thrashing of limbs and flesh, the sounds of Anders’ crying, begging, struggling, and Karras’ unforgiving grasp, his hand ablaze with raw power, vindictive and punishing with the true might of the templars. 

Carver could not look away. He had no eyelids to shut, no neck to twist away, no power to stop what he was witnessing, and no free will to act upon. 

“This isn’t happening,” he finally managed to say aloud. 

The words pierced the world, tearing at the fabric of reality. The templars’ on either side of him disappeared into the darkness, freeing him from their grasp. The grotesque scene in front of him fell still, then melted from existence entirely, Karras swallowed by the shadows like a demon crawling back into the Fade. For a sickly moment, all that existed was Carver and Anders, and they were not in a cell, but a place with neither walls or ceiling, nor even a ground to stand upon, and they had neither body nor shape, existing as mere presences, spirits in a realm without matter, and Anders’ existence was utter desperation, a weight of misery that fell upon Carver as an unstoppable deluge of anguish, drowning him, consuming him, until at last he collapsed back into his own body, drenched in sweat, shivering, and struggling to catch his breath.

The window in Carvers’ room showed no sign of daybreak, but still offered a gentle light, the stars watching from the far-off safety of the skies. But it was not enough. It was still too dark. Carver scrambled to light a candle, hands shaking furiously as he struck the flint, once, twice, three times, and still no spark caught the wick. The candle, its holder, and flint alike rattled to the ground in a deafening clamour as Carver threw them aside. He joined them shortly thereafter, legs giving out underneath him. 

He just had to keep his eyes open.


	5. Chapter 5

“Absolutely not.”

Carver was not surprised at the response, but that did not make the refusal any more pleasant. “You haven’t even heard me out yet.”

First Enchanter Orsino sat at his desk, brow furrowed in thought. He was rifling through some intimidatingly large tome, shaking his head. Carver could not tell if the action was directed at the book’s contents, or at him. “I do not need to. What you’re proposing is ridiculous.”

“I thought the entire point of the Circle was to study magic and the fade and spirits. You have a prime opportunity to—” 

Orsino closed the book purposefully, the loud _thud_ making it clear that Carver was wasting his breath. “What I _have_ is a prime example of what happens when mages overestimate their abilities, and think themselves above common practice.”

He stood up, turning to replace the tome onto the large bookshelf that dominated the eastern wall of his office. He raised one long, ringed finger, tracing along the spines of the other volumes with singular focus. 

“Ask even the youngest apprentice here, and they can tell you the dangers of dealing with demons and spirits alike. To fall victim to manipulation of a demon’s temptation or trickery is one thing. A sign of mental weakness or lack of fortitude, perhaps. But for one to _willingly_ offer themselves as host—”

“I imagine it hasn’t been done too often.” Carver noted. “I imagine it’s not well understood.”

“What is there to understand?” Orisino pulled out a new book briefly, but returned it after a brief perusal. “He is an abomination. A victim of possession. That means he presents a threat to anyone around him.”

“But is he?” Carver looked over his shoulder, mindful that other ears could likely hear their conversation. Someone was _always_ trying to listen in. Mage or templar, a bit of useful information could sometimes be the only thing between you and punishment. “Surely you heard of him, right? He was running a medical clinic in Darktown. Helping the sick and wounded. That doesn’t exactly say “dangerous abomination” to me.”

Satisfied with his newest selection, Orsino returned to his desk. He avoided looking at Carver as he responded, as if that would abscond him of the implication that he had knowledge of the mages outside of the circle. “Perhaps I have heard of this. Perhaps I also heard that he was also associated with a group of rebel mages, acting out against the Chantry. Which many _would_ call dangerous.”

“And the rebel mages who weren’t possessed? Do they pose the same threat? Will they face his fate too, if captured?”

“If some of the templars here had their way…” Orsino frowned. “What you are arguing is one of the fundamental theological debates of magic itself.” 

_Andraste’s ass, not this again._ Carver wanted to groan aloud, but he knew that the First Enchanter was being more than polite in agreeing to speak with a new templar recruit during his free time. Or, rather, what was the closest to free time Orsino seemed to have.

“The truth is that spirits themselves are not dangerous. They have no will or emotions of their own to drive them to evil. It is the humans who seek their power who corrupt them into the demons we know. A sword is neither good nor evil, nor can it cause harm until someone chooses to wield it. But a sword also gives great power, and that power can very easily turn to chaos and destruction.”

 _What is it with mages and analogies? Can they not just say what they mean?_ “But he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“ _Yet_.”

“And just the _risk_ of him doing something bad is reason enough?”

“Abominations are far more powerful than normal mages,” Orsino explained, not unkindly, but Carver still felt an air of impatience in his words. “Just one can kill a dozen men before it is destroyed. The risk is too high, even if the chance is small.”

“But he isn’t—” Carver sighed and took a moment to find the right words. It felt like Orsino was missing his point. “You can’t tell me that he is the same as any other abomination.”

“I haven’t met many abominations.”

“Exactly!” Carver leaned onto Orsino’s desk excitedly, hoping to finally keep his focus. “No other Circle has, either. You have the opportunity to study the effects of possession first hand! You could… you could... I don’t know, see if you can undo it? See if there are ways to prevent it?”

“I’m afraid you aren’t selling the idea very well to me, Ser Carver,” Orsino remarked.

“ _Maker_ , I know. I’m not a mage.” Carver hung his head in exasperation. “Do you truly think that there is nothing to learn from him?”

“Not at all. He simply is just too much of a risk to justify any of it.”

“A risk,” Carver repeated, still staring at the desk, if only to avoid glaring at the First Enchanter. “So a man — a man who has committed _no_ crime — should be executed, simply because he _could_ be dangerous.”

“He has committed a crime. A crime of magic.” Orsino’s voice grew dark. “And the sentence is standard. Apprentices possessed during their Harrowing are executed immediately. He has simply avoided punishment until now.”

Carver’s head snapped upright with a revelation. “That’s right. How many apprentices have died during their Harrowing?”

Orisino barely raised his gaze from the book to look at Carver, face firm. “Too many.”

“What if they didn’t have to die?” Carver was surprised he hadn’t considered the thought before. “If Anders can live normally— or, I suppose, normal enough — while possessed, maybe others can too. Maybe apprentices could learn to—”

“Preposterous.” At last, Orsino gave Carver his full attention, but the disgust in his voice made Carver suddenly not want it. “You would have us openly accept abominations? Teach our apprentices that they can trust the spirits in the Fade? That possession isn’t so bad?”

“Well, I… maybe not go _that_ far…”

“What Anders represents is an anomaly. Even if one in ten possessions could be benign — and I think that is a _more_ than generous number — that still means nine abominations to deal with. How many lives will those nine take for the sake of saving the life of one?”

Carver wished he had a response to that. 

“Magic is dangerous, above all else. What you are asking me is to attempt to tame a dragon. Perhaps it is possible. Perhaps if you succeed, you could have the power to conquer all of Thedas. But a wise man knows when to consider the cost of such a pursuit, and if the power is worth that cost. A wise man aims to avoid dragons, if he can. And kills them when he can’t.”

Carver must have looked utterly defeated, for something changed in Orsino’s expression as Carver nodded in understanding.

“Even if I think you’re speaking about dangerous things here, it’s good of you to try to see things differently. I wish there were more templars who thought like you.” He almost smiled at that. “There is always more to learn. More things to understand. Better ways to do things. Most in the Circle would rather keep doing things the same way forever. Most templars _and_ mages.”

That almost gave Carver hope. “So you truly wouldn’t even consider just… talking to him? Surely there’s something he could teach you.” _And perhaps he could convince you better than I can._

“Were this another Circle, I would do so without hesitation,” Orsino confessed. “But we have enough tension here as it is without the First Enchanter fraternizing with known abominations. Meredith would have my head.”

“Then what of one of the Senior Enchanters—”

“I would ask none of them to do what I would not.” Orsino picked up his quill again, and Carver knew the conversation was almost finished.

“Then… there’s no hope for him, is there?”

“None I can offer, I’m afraid.” His voice was heavy with regret. “If you get the opportunity, I would have you give him my thanks. Many who escaped the Circle left with their lives thanks to him. While I would have rather seen them safe than apostates, he did do a service to those who needed it.”

_If only your thanks did him any good._ “I will let him know, First Enchanter.” 

* * *

Somehow, through divine providence, or just dumb superstition, Carver knew that it was going to be the last time he climbed down that blighted stairwell. Fitting enough that this time, he descended with no torch. A stupid move, by all decisions, but not one he made by choice. He had to trust in his hands on the walls, and his feet on the floor, where his eyes offered no support.

For once, he wished the way down was longer— better yet, endless. Then he would never have to actually go through with the suffering and crisis that awaited him below. A lifetime of darkness, descending lower and lower, deeper and deeper into madness… it was not so different than what was already happening, anyways. 

Unfortunately, the stairwell was still finite. The pitch black of the hallway still carried the sounds of his footfalls along their walls, and he could almost feel the reverberations with his hands, the call-and-response of his hesitant steps. 

This was it.

Despite the darkness, he knew he had reached Anders’ cell on instinct. No sound or light betrayed its location— at least, none he was conscious of. Perhaps the feeling he had in his gut that told him Anders would be waiting in the next cell was not some sixth sense, nor the Maker guiding his way, but just his body reacting to sounds and movements he was unknowingly trying to ignore. 

Just outside of the cell, in the unrelenting shadows, Carver stood still. 

First for one minute. 

Then two.

Then five. 

He played out the conversation in his head, trying to find the right words, but always his mind would wander. Back to Karras, back to the wounds and Anders’ blood smeared on the walls, pooling on the floor. Back to his nightmare. Carver would have to fight back the urge to spin right around, climb back up the stairs, and never return to these Maker-damned dungeons. Yet that would not be an escape. There was no escape. He would have to carry the weight of his guilt all the way up, all the way back, for the rest of his life, forever regretting what he could not do. He was trapped now, too. 

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. If the Maker was going to judge him, though, he would rather be damned because he did, if only because it helped him feel as if he tried. That had to be worth something.

Carver drew a deep breath, and felt the swell of the lyrium in his blood. Power turned carnal, brutal and intoxicating, and still overwhelming when he let it assail his body completely. He needed the power, though. Now more than ever. He allowed the lyrium to ease to the surface of his body, small flames of blue licking at his fingers, floating into the air, giving the first wisps of light to the hallway.

Carver stepped forward. 

Anders looked up at him from the centre of his cell and stared. He said nothing.

Carver said nothing, either.

There was no idiotic guard on duty, and so Carver had no keys to gain entry into the cell. He would have to make due with the other tools he had, instead. Channeling the lyrium into his arms, his muscles pure radiance, he drew his blade from his back. It took more focus to pass the energy from his arms to the steel, focus Carver apparently did not have, as he felt the lyrium dissipate into the air instead of into the sword. More deep breaths, drawing more of the energy he felt singing in his blood back into his arms, extending it further, into his grip, his hilt and palm but one interface of the same being. His sword was him, just built of steel instead of flesh. 

The blade accepted the gift in a blinding flash of blue, but Carver would not look away. The flaming sword was the sigil of the Templar Order, symbolic of the mercy given to Andraste as she was burnt at the stake. A reminder that cruelty could always be opposed, even if only to lessen the pain of those experiencing it.

Andraste could burn, for all he cared. Her sword was his to wield, now.

The sound of his sword crashing upon the iron bars would have been overwhelming enough in of itself, but the echo turned the noise into an overwhelming, bloodcurdling sound of pure chaos. Should his blade have been able to break the lock on the cell? None of the lessons of his abilities told him that such a thing was possible. But Carver had no other choice, and one thing the templars did very well using the pure faith to fuel their powers. To dispel magic was to put faith in one’s own understanding of the world, of the Maker's intent, and to deny the influence of the mage, and the world they hoped to create. When the turmoil of ringing metal finally settled, and Carver was able to open the door of Anders’ cell, it was no miracle, but Carver realizing his singular vision of what needed to be done. 

“ _Andraste’s ass_ ,” Anders breathed, eyes wide. “I really must be insane.”

“Join the club.” Carver stepped into the cell, glancing to consider the world above them. “I wonder if anyone could hear that. This could end up being a very short visit.”

“Wait— you…” Anders gave Carver a double take, his dilated pupils still struggling to adjust to the new light still emanating from his sword. “It’s actually you.”

Carver frowned, looking at Anders suspiciously, trying to avoid the knot of worry in his stomach. “Last time I checked I was, yeah.”

“I—” Anders swallowed hard. “All this time, I was starting to worry that you had just been imaginary.”

The fact that Anders still did not stand had Carver looking at his legs with worry. _It was only a dream,_ he reminded himself. And yet…

“That really was you, then.” 

Carver nodded.

“With the keys. The potion. The wine.”

 _Wine?_ Did he only mean that they had talked of wine? Or had Anders actually had some hallucination of Carver, coming back with the wine they had discussed? Carver worried his lip at the thought, wondering if asking might actually be more dangerous than simply leaving the matter. “Yeah. That was really me.”

“Maker help me, I … think it's Justice.” Anders was shivering, still only garbed in his small clothes. The air of the dungeon must have been bitterly cold on his skin. “The templars, they— they grasp hold of him, and subdue him, but it’s all wrong. They force him out of my mind, shove him deep down, and it’s… _wrong._ All wrong _._ ”

It must have been the only word Anders could think to describe it, for he continued to repeat the word. Carver could at least breathe a small sigh of relief as Anders brought himself to a shaky stand. His bruises were largely dark brown and yellow, now, with no fresh wounds or injuries that Carver could see. It seemed as if Ser Karras had either grown bored of Anders, or hoped that the isolation would help to break him before another interrogation session. 

“Every time they wrestle with him, it’s like a… physical struggle, but within my mind. The chaos is rattling everything inside me. My memories are blurring together, or I'm remember things that never happened. My limbs will go numb one minute, and then flare up in pain a the next. When he realized how it was affecting me, he wouldn’t stop—” Anders choked on his words, grimacing. “He found a the perfect means of torturing me. Now I can’t remember what was some horrible Fade nightmare, and what was real.”

“I… talked with the First Enchanter. I hoped he might—”

Anders gave a grim scoff. “Let me guess. Orsino offered his sympathies, but can’t do anything, because he’s afraid of what Meredith will think.”

“...essentially, yeah.” Carver wanted to feel angry about the man’s cowardice, but was he truly any better? “He… also wanted to thank you. For helping when you could.”

“ _Maker_ ,” Anders looked to the ground with a sober, wide-eyed horror. “I… really am going to die here, aren’t I?”

“Looks like it, I’m afraid.” No reason to deny the truth. 

For a time, the two stood in silence. Carver’s sword, hanging limp in his off hand, still kept the cell illuminated, but the glow was starting to dim as it consumed the lyrium it had been given. He considered it for a moment, a small part of him aware of how as a child, such a thing would have represented a wonderful power he dreamt of having one day. Now he wished it had stayed a dream.

“There’s only one thing left to do, then.” Carver saw no point in hiding the fear in his voice, but to his surprise, his voice did not betray his panic. He could feel the lyrium continue to swell and fall with his breath, steadying his nerves. “I think you’ll be wanting this.”

Carver reached into his supply pouch, pulling out a tightly wrapped piece of fabric. He handed it over to Anders, who allowed it to fall open in his grasp, revealing one of the grey robes worn by the Circle’s mages.

“...what?” Was all Anders could ask.

“I stole it from one of the apprentices,” Carver explained. “I don’t imagine we’ll get very far out of here with you naked.”

“You… _what_?” Anders looked at Carver as if he was speaking another language. 

“If you look like one of the mages, I bet we’ll be able to get further before we have to start fighting.”

The realization washed over Anders’ face, turning the confused scowl into a look of distress. “You can’t be serious.”

“If you’d prefer to stay locked up, I can still do that.”

“No I mean—” Anders gave a scoff of disbelief. “It’s _suicide_. How many of them are there out there?”

“I don’t know,” Carver admitted with a thoughtful look. “We could count them as we take them down, maybe see who can get more.”

“You _are_ insane.”

“Or maybe I’m thinking clearly for the first time in my life.” Carver flashed a brief smile. Fear still possessed his muscles, and he had to draw on the lyrium to help them to relax, but for once the guilt was not among the stress. It was as if someone had lifted a weight from his back, and he could finally stand at his full height again. “Did you know I was named after a friend of my father’s?”

Anders looked uneasy. “I… am not sure I follow.”

“You see, my father was once a part of this very Circle. When he found out my mother was pregnant, it was a friend of his that helped him escape. Ser Maurevar Carver.” 

“A templar.” Anders was almost smiling, pulling the robe over his head. 

“I’m afraid I couldn’t bring a staff for you but, I reckon we’ll find one you can use along the way. If we last that long, that is.”

“If that’s the case, let me do one thing first.” 

Perhaps it was all a dream. It certainly felt like it, the way that Anders placed a hand on his face, thumb caressing his cheek as he pulled him closer, his breath tickling his lips, hovering just out of reach. It was up to him to finish the motion, to grab Anders by the nape of his neck and kiss him like he had wanted, like he had first imagined that night, when he saw him looking at him with such tender consideration. A fleeting moment of bliss, finally fulfilled as Anders melted into his embrace, and in his thrill, his elevated breathing, he felt the lyrium melt between them as well, a warmth passing between hands, lips, and tongue, singing a melody meant only for them. 

But like all dreams, good or otherwise, it came to an abrupt end. Anders pulled away with little warning, lips curled into a smile even as they gave a huff of exertion. It left Carver wanting, eager for more, not so different from the hunger that grew in his stomach after his first taste of lyrium. But Carver was painfully aware that the moment had passed. A dream could not be repeated or pinned down; it was a fleeting moment, gone as quickly as it came.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but… _Maker._ What was that bit with the lyrium?” Anders shook his head in amazement. “I think I actually feel _stronger_ after that. I should have tried kissing templars years ago."

An amusing image. Carver couldn't help but continue indulging the fantasy, imagining how things would have been different then— but not with templars. Just Anders and Carver. Should it have taken a crisis to bring the two together? Could the two bickering men in Darktown have ever grown together, the way the Gallows had now twisted their fates together against their will? Perhaps not in the same way, but Carver liked to think there might have been a happier alternative. One with less torture and imminent death, but still with this new feeling that was emerging, not as a pain tearing its way from inside of him, but as a warmth that was being drawn inwards, being held in his chest. A feeling he finally had a word for — fondness. Affection. Perhaps even some crude, messy form of love. If this was the path he had to follow, now, he was glad he at least still had that feeling to hold onto.

“Shall we show them what Fereldans can do?” Carver reaffirmed his grasp on his greatsword, rekindling the lyrium flames on its surface.

“A templar and a mage, fighting side by side to their freedom." Anders smirked. "Almost sounds like one of Varric’s stories, doesn’t it?”

Carver allowed himself a final laugh as they began the dark walk towards the surface, Anders falling into stride at his side. “Aye. That it does.”

Maker willing, they’d actually get the chance to hear it one day.


End file.
